


January 29th

by Links



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, January 29th, Love Letters, M/M, kind of actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-11 02:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links/pseuds/Links
Summary: A short fic because today is a very special day for all Sherlock fans and it deserves to be celebrated. I hope you enjoy it :)





	1. Chapter 1

Do you remember the day we met?

I’m sure you do. You can’t have forgotten the first time our gazes met in the St Bart’s lab. Sometimes, I can still hear Mike’s babbling on about the “good old days” while I was pretending to listen to him, dark thoughts running in my head.

And then I looked up and you were here.

Clear eyes focused on your research, long fingers adjusting the microscope before you stretched out your hand, already asking for something I was only too willing to give you.

It’s strange, you know, because I don’t usually remember the first time I met someone.

I guess I’ve never told you that (among many, many other things) but the memory of the circumstances under which I’ve first encountered Mike, for instance, does not remain with me.

Was it at uni? Or somewhere else? What were the first words we exchanged?

I don’t know anymore.

The same goes for Mary. And for every person whose presence I’ve enjoyed in my life.

But you… I remember. I remember every word, every line “Afghanistan or Iraq?”, every deduction you made afterwards about Harry.

The way your eyes focused on me when I gave you my phone, the way your mouth briefly crinkled into a smile.

I remember everything.

In retrospect, I should have known.

I should have known that the wonder I felt when you started deciphering on the spot everything which could be known about me, finding so easily the key to all the riddles I’ve kept for myself, this very wonder was only the beginning.

That the mere word of “friendship” was not enough – would never be enough for what we had.

What we still have, despite our mutual efforts to destroy it.

I know, I’m being unfair to you and me, writing such a thing. However, it still rings true to some extent, doesn’t it? Regardless of the circumstances which forced our hands and everything we had to endure through our relationship, we both revealed ourselves to be destructive to each other.

You ruined me, played with my heart and trust, forcing me to watch you falling from this thrice damned building before appearing again suddenly, smiling like your death has been nothing but a great joke to my expense.

In return, I hurt your feelings whenever I could. Seducing women, marrying Mary, loudly claiming “I’m not gay!” and pretending not to notice your silence afterwards.

I beat you up.

I told you “everyone but you” and I made you pay for something you weren’t guilty of.

If you could see me now, I’ve no doubt you’ll be frowning before telling me once again that it’s over, that you forgave me, that’s it’s all right between us.

You will remind me of the anger management classes I’ve attended directly after I’ve helped you rebuilding and renovating the flat at 221b, Baker Street.

Of the very promise I’ve made after we hugged (again), breaking the silence of what was once again our flat.

“It’s enough, John. Let bygones be bygones. Stop hurting yourself.”

I can hear your voice in my ear, smell your warm breath on my skin. Feel the imprint of your hand on the nape of my neck.

You’ve branded me as yours, Sherlock, since this very first day and I’m only sorry I never dared to acknowledge it until today.

Today is our anniversary. The only one which truly matters.

You’ve suggested this morning going to Angelo’s, your voice flippant and nonchalant as if my answer didn’t really matter one way or the other. You still seem to think I don’t notice the way caution and hope are warring against each other in your gaze every time you drop a hint about these first days, when we were young and foolish enough to take what we had for granted.

And every time I don’t turn you down, every time I smile when I’m reminded of a case we investigated together, your eyes shine just a little bit brighter.

You’ve become softer, Sherlock, at least for me.

Easier to understand.

Easier to love as well.

My love for you has been for a long time a thorny, painful feeling. Piercing my heart when I least expected it. I never managed to get rid of it. I didn’t want to, in truth, even during the dark, gloomy days following your death.

And now…

This particular thorn has finally turned into something softer. Smoother. Something I can live with, something I can be proud of. A glow which refuses to be dimmed even when I relapse, hating myself for all the things I’ve done. A warmth kindled by your smile, this newfound gentleness I find so addictive and of which I just can’t get enough.

We’ve both changed, Sherlock. We’re not the same men as before and it’s a good thing.

Tonight, when we’ll come back from Angelo’s, I’ll take your hand, making you sit in your armchair next to the fire and I’m going to be brave.

I’m going to tell you everything I’ve just written here.

Let me prove how much I love you.

I won’t ask for anything you won’t be willing to give me, I swear. Let me just…

You’re precious to me, Sherlock. Everything we had and that we still have deserves to be cherished and nurtured. To be remembered with fondness and to be talked about, a smile on our lips.

Let us not forget the past and let us prepare our future.

Together.

Because all those years ago, I met you and you're still the best thing which has happened to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter for my dear PatPrecieux, who inspired Muse with this great idea. Of course I couldn't resist then!  
> Hope you'll enjoy it :)

You never had a friend.

You never really believed you might find one, one day.

And most of the time, you were fine with it.

Why not, after all? Every day you see hearts breaking, friendships crumbling, supposed “mates” betraying one another. You observe the cracks in the _I’m-just-a-nice-bloke/girl_ masks, you notice how fast greed, jealousy and the will to hurt the other fill them in, boiling up, rising to the surface til you have to look away.

Feelings can be so ugly.

So trivial and so needless at the same time.

Why should you let someone in your mind, your heart? Why should you become attached to one person when you already know how it would end?

“Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft has whispered in your ear, one day. He has just come back from the uni, you were still a child. At this time, you didn’t know the exact circumstances, you merely deduced your brother’s feelings have been grievously hurt.

And you were right.

As always.

It’s really not a wonder then that growing up, you decided friendships – or any kind of relationships, really – just weren’t worth the time and energy. 

It wasn’t worth the unavoidable heartbreak.

You remained aloof from all your peers, cloaking yourself in the superiority you were feeling over anyone crossing your path. They didn’t know, you thought on the very few occasions you were burdened by loneliness, observing the others from afar, they didn’t know how fast they would stop laughing and smiling at their loved ones if they only knew what the other was really thinking.

But you knew.

You were the only one and you enjoyed this, savouring each deduction, each discovery like you would sip at a fine wine. 

“ _Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné_ ”, your mother used to say. 

“Better alone than being with someone who doesn’t care”.   

You faithfully observed this.

Until you met John. 

* * *

 

John.

A whole world contained in a single syllable.

A never-ending universe of breathless laughter, fond grumbling –  _“Have you ever once in your life thought before speaking?” “No. Where would be the fun in that?”_  – and cups of tea magically appearing in front of you.

John also was chaos – a marvellous, terrific source of disorder and anarchy concealed from the public eye, hidden under a friendly smile and old-fashioned jumpers. Only you were able to look beyond it. Only you could glimpse the dangerous gleam in his gaze, fuel the thrill-seeking impulse which pushed you both out of the safe, cosy haven of 221b Baker Street and into London’s dark underbelly.

Or at least, you used to think so. 

* * *

 

John wasn’t perfect.

Nobody is. 

You regularly became exasperated by his stubbornness, his observance of what you perceived as silly traditions and the way he was holding fast to his heterosexuality. Parading all these women under your very nose, getting angry when you managed to disturb his dates… It was so stupid! How couldn’t he see how compatible you were with one another? How fast you were falling for him?

You were hurt.

You refused to look at him when he came back at the flat, reeking of sex, a silly grin plastered on his mouth.

Sleep eluded you more often and you didn’t even notice it, lost as you were in your own turmoil, resolving in the dead of the night to break free from the grasp John seemed to have on your heart before falling all over again come morning.

But the worst was yet to come.

* * *

 

Death.

Loneliness.

Salty tears on your cheeks as you gasp in pain, cruel laughter echoing in your ears.

John, john, john, the only clear flame in a barren, desolate landscape, John, the only source of water for your parched heart, John, the only name which could bring you hope and strength enough to survive one more day.

You couldn’t die without having seen him again, you resolved.

 

* * *

 

Did you think it was the end? That you would come back like a triumphant Odysseus, who, after having killed every intruder who has set foot in his territory, found back happiness and warmth with his faithful Penelope?

You don’t know anymore.

London was cold this day and it turned even colder when you set eyes again on John.

John proposing to Mary.

John punching you on the mouth.

John who, despite your return, carried on with the wedding plans.

Mary’s pregnancy, as fake as it turned out to be, was the straw that broke your back.

The splinter under your skin, forcing a bloody way through your chest until it finally pierced your heart.

You lost yourself. You played fast and loose – a madman on the brink.

You killed. You were shot. You made mistakes – terrible mistakes – and dearly paid for them.

You changed so much you didn’t recognize yourself when looking in the mirror.

You spoke to Death and you cried after having read a letter.

You followed the white rabbit in his lair and you almost fell down headfirst in the pit.

And John… John was bitterness and sweetness at the same time, a hand on your knee, a “Anyone but him”, a monster roaring in pain, a life-saving hand when you’ve lost all hope.

When everything was over, when dust has settled again at 221b, the sun setting as if nothing has changed, as if your world hasn’t been turned upside down, you found yourself on your own.

* * *

 

That’s how it must have ended.

But life could offer second chances.

It certainly seemed like it when you opened the flat’s door and found John on the landing, a suitcase at his feet and an anxious little smile on his lips.

“I thought that… I want to…”

“Come inside,” you said and opened the door wide.

It was so awkward at first, neither of you being very successful at talking, speaking out loud what was weighing on your minds.

Shy, fleeting glances at the other, tongue licking lips in a nervous gesture, aborted sentences, anxious little laughs.

Your mind was buzzing with unanswered questions.

_Why did you come back?_

_Why are you still here?_

_What do you want from me?_

_Tell me now, because I can’t be burnt again, I just can’t…_

It slowly got better. Eyes shining a little bit brighter, laughter echoing louder within the walls. Lestrade calling you, Mycroft meddling as always and Hudders watching both of you with a familiar twinkle in her eyes.

It sounded so familiar you could almost believe nothing has changed, nothing has been lost.

Almost.

You didn’t dare to hope.

You repeated yourself it was too late, there were too many missed opportunities, too many things left unsaid. You were careful, so careful with him. With everyone, really. You behaved like a coward, you knew that, but you were so afraid.

 

* * *

 

And then, tonight, everything changed.

Once again.

But for the better, this time.

John was watching you like a hawk, eyes never leaving your face, your lips.

You did your best not to blush under his attention.

You weren’t very successful.

Your heart was racing in your chest but still, you didn’t dare to hope for more.

You’ve learned not to be greedy. To enjoy life’s little gifts – or not so little, as far as John was concerned.

It’s all right, you told yourself. It’s all fine just as it is.

You didn’t suspect a thing until you were both back at 221b. You were still talking, telling him an old case just to make him smile, when he took your hand, breaking you off.

“Sherlock, I need to tell you something.”

You were left speechless, your whole body trembling with apprehension and fear – Mary’s ghost rising from its ashes, all your past mistakes coming back to haunt you, oh Sherlock, what have you done?

“Sherlock, look at me!”

A hand on your cheek.

Blue eyes wide open, not letting you go.

Tension suddenly rising, a nearly suffocating silence falling on both of you.

Raspy breaths.

Warm skin, soft gazes.

Truth finally edging its way through every touch, every look.

A tremulous smile, followed by “I swear, I’ve got a whole speech prepared but… I don’t think I can…”

A step forward.

A hand on your waist, so light you were afraid you were dreaming.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes.”

You knew, then.

You knew then that joy and happiness might wait a very long time to find you, bursting into bloom when you least expected it.

And it was more than fine in the end.

* * *

 

Now, you’re lying in bed, watching the man you love softly snoring. He’s nestled against you and you’re filled with so much love for him you want to kiss him again and again.

But you don’t dare waking him up.

You’ve just kissed, you didn’t have sex – not yet. But you don’t really care.

You’ve waited nearly forty years before finding your one and only, what’s one more day, one more week, especially when you know now that you love and that you’re loved?

It’s nothing.

You watch him.

You lean in, brushing the tip of your nose against his warm skin, inhaling his smell, his warmth.

“I love you, John Watson,” you whisper in his ear.

* * *

 

You never had a friend.

You never had a lover.

Until you met John Watson.

And you let him in.

 


End file.
